There Was a Reason
by T.L. Arens
Summary: S7; After Bobby slips into a coma, Dean and Sam are left to fend for themselves. The first few days are the hardest.


A/N Just a Season 7 tidbit; we've only heard a sentence or two as to just how miserable and difficult life has been for the boys, so I thought I'd delve into that subject a little more.

There is a Reason

Dean dashed across a two-lane rain drenched highway. An old red pickup truck approached from the right. Dean stomped along the roadside several yards until the truck vanished from view. He back tracked, lightly jogging until he found a dip into the roadside embankment. He tested the wet ground for footing and gripped leafless branches and vines to secure his weight.

Dean scrabbled down the embankment and edged among the cold damp trees until he found the ancient bridge and by default, his brother.

Sam huddled, shivering in his ratted jacket and filthy old jeans. He coughed long, hard and dry and shivered again. Dean tugged a weak smile on his lips and crouched before his brother. From under his dirty, buckskin jacket, Dean produced a light throw blanket, a loaf of bread and a new lighter.

"I asked for a cup of hot soup but they said some dick took off with it all, Sammy. But here. It's better than nothin'."

Sam smiled gratefully and coughed in spasms again. When his body settled down he accepted a torn piece of sourdough from his brother. "I'll go next time and get us a whole decanter of coffee, Dean."

"Yeah, I'd like to see you pull that one off, fly boy." Dean paused half a second, "Hey, where'd all the wood come from?"

Sam bit into the fresh fluffy bread and thought it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. "Farm across the way out there. Whole barn o' stuff. Didn't think the horses minded."

Dean smiled, pleased. "You're alright, Sammy." Using the brown bag the bread came in, Dean nurtured a good fire and settled next to his brother to split the bread and a small bottle of water. He tore a chunk of bread for himself and ate in such a way as to make sure his brother had as much as he could eat. Sammy needed medicine, a warm bed and hot tea. They needed Bobby (still in a coma) and his home (their home) and the Impala.

Where did it all go so wrong?

Dean swallowed another mouthful of bread and pretended to take a sip of water when Sam coughed and coughed and coughed even more. He used a precious amount of toilet paper and tossed the wad into the fire.

Dean squeezed his brother's knee. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he said as the fire dried his fixed gaze. "I just don't know what to do anymore. We're just completely... everything's gone."

Sam wrapped the remainder of the bread in a piece of plastic, cautious to keep something just in case. He coughed and coughed and coughed until he thought his lungs turned inside out. Wearied by the fit, he slumped against Dean's shoulder and just concentrated on breathing. "It's not that bad, Dean." he said quietly.

Dean blinked, confused and half annoyed. "What? What could be worse than being homeless, hunted and starving? You're sick, Sam. Probably have pneumonia." He paused when Sam coughed again and again and again. This time when Sam settled, Dean slipped an arm around his brother and rubbed his arm. "This is just the lowest we've ever been."

"No it's not," Sam whispered. He forced his lungs to stay quiet. "You and me have been much lower before. Drenched in pain and blood and fire. Here, we see the rain and the sun. we see trees and snow. Here we can still fight. Down There, there is no hope, no rain or laughter. Up here, I may have nothing. But as long as I got my brother, I have everything."

Dean smiled and tugged Sam a little closer. "I knew there was a reason you were m'brother, Sammy."

The fire died later that night. Dean wrapped his little brother in his jacket and thought about taking off his sweater for Sam too, but decided he'd get enough a lecture from Sam for the jacket. Dean stared across the wet field as the rain watered puddles and dripped from the dormant trees. Lights from a house teased Dean, inviting him across a muddied field to seek much needed resources to survive another miserable night.

With a single glance at Sam, he risked it. Cold water soaked through his boots and socks. His clothes clung to him and made him shiver. He reached the old wooden fence and tried to make little to no noise; dogs were always so much trouble. But if Sam could do it, Dean certainly could, too.

He rounded the back yard and found the rear entrance to the barn. Stepping inside, old hay, horses and straw assailed his nose. He flicked the lighter from his pocket and tried to see by the tiny flame.

Several horse blankets hung from a rack. A bucket of raw oats, yet untouched waited for him. Dean exhaled in relief until a gun appeared in his face.

"Look what the rain brings in." an old man appeared, though the darkness hid his features. "M' horses don't do well in the rain, son."

"I'm not after your hoses... sir," Dean answered humbly. "M'brother is sick and I thought a blanket might be good for him." Dean blinked into the glaring brilliance of a flashlight. He knew he looked awful; three days' beard, his hair soaked, rumpled clothing and unconcealed weariness and grief."

"You don't look like no transient or hobo, son." The old man lowered the flashlight, but kept his gun trained on Dean. "What's your brother's name?"

"Sammy. I think he's got pneumonia." Dean couldn't keep the trembling out of his voice.

"You a doctor?"

"No."

"Show me where your brother is." The old man forced Dean around and out the barn. "Come on. Let's go."

Dean led across the field. A wind gust swept through and forced him to wrap his arms around his chest. Another few days like this and Dean feared he too would end up sick.

They found Sam sitting up, coughing and wheezing. He'd draw enough breath for another series of painful coughs before drawing all the clothing more tightly about him. "Awe, Dean," Sam mourned. "Are we in trouble?"

Without a word, the old man helped Dean bring Sam to his feet. They stumbled across the field, pausing every few minutes while Sam coughed in bronchial spasms.

They reached the house and Dean held his brother tightly while he basked in the warmth. Their host disappeared one moment and returned the next with an armful of warm clothes. He tossed the items in their direction, disappeared into his own kitchen and snapped on the gas stove.

"Name's Immanuel," he declared. "You boys take those soaked things off a' you. Once I get something in your innards, each a' you take a hot shower."

It took at least an hour for them to get settled. Sam almost could not eat. But once he finished his soup, Immanuel gave him cough syrup and tugged out a hide-a-bed in the living room. He dragged out three thick quilts. "The Misses is off workin'. Won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. So you boys just batten down for the night. Don't fuss over nothing."

Sam passed out the minute Dean covered him. Immanuel returned from the kitchen, handed Dean a steaming cup of coffee and gave Sam a shot.

Dean almost choked on his coffee. "What was that?"

"Little penicillin. I'm a veterinarian. It'll help him." With a kind smile, Immanuel bade the brothers a good night.

Dean woke the following morning, refreshed, warm and grateful. Sammy still slept hard but quiet and big brother decided to let him sleep as long as he wanted.

He rose, used the restroom and peeked into the kitchen. A note lay on the table and with a lump in his throat, Dean picked it up:

BREAKFAST'S IN THE OVEN. SAM'S MEDS ARE NEXT TO THE SINK. THE BACKPACKS ARE YOURS. HAVE COURAGE, DEAN. HE STILL WATCHES OVER YOU.

Dean found two backpacks sitting next to the front door. Inside he found food, water, a book of addresses, keys to a car and seven hundred dollars.

He swallowed hard and whispered a humbled thank you.

The End.


End file.
